


The Pact

by TotoroOnesie



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Tumblr Prompt, Witch!Lexa, hopefully more comedic than anything, human!clarke, not at all to be taken seriously, pretty much everyone will make an appearance once or twice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 01:01:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9574946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotoroOnesie/pseuds/TotoroOnesie
Summary: An accident, a promise of a firstborn, and a blood pact.OrA Tumblr prompt I couldn’t get out of my head so why not use Clexa for it?





	

When she comes to, it feels as if the world’s on fire. Her surroundings are blurry, eyes squinting against the harsh, tar-black smoke wafting about her periphery, and unless the sky’s become the ground and vice versa, she’s definitely upside down. Broken glass shards litter everywhere, the windshield in spiderweb cracks in multiple places, and it’s here where her fogged mind finally, finally wakes up, because she’s always been good at math—she learned to add when she was old enough to talk (or so her dad has proudly boasted numerous times (she has a feeling it’s not quite true)), and upside down plus snow plus accident plus smoke plus the unmistakeable smell of gas equals fire, equals panic, equals get the hell out. 

A rough set of coughs takes her out of the beginnings of a panic induced mind, and she’s able to crank her neck enough to see her dad coming to, a trickling flow of blood seeping from a forehead cut, through some sandy blond strands, and dripping lazily into the ceiling of the SUV. 

“Clarke…” 

His voice is rough, hoarse, and tinged with so much pain that it renews the panic already overriding every thought flashing in Clarke’s mind. 

“Dad, don’t move,” she pleads, her fingers reaching over to the seatbelt and prodding the release button. It gives way easily enough, and she tumbles gracelessly out of the seat, crashing shoulder first into the vinyl upholstery and sending the car to groan, creak, and sway at the sudden movement. Some shards cut into the exposed skin on the side of her face, but she barely feels it, the rush of her heart beating frenetically in her inner ear citing what could be the start of adrenalin possibly numbing her from any perceivable pain. “I’m gonna get you out, okay? Just…” 

She trails off helplessly as Jake gingerly shakes his head, his hand grabbing the steering wheel that had curled upon itself and against his body during the car’s earlier barrel roll, and attempts to push it off. 

It doesn’t give a single inch. 

“Kinda stuck here kiddo.” His smile is at once apologetic and warm. His eyes, a near reflection of hers, becomes unfocused for a second before he shakes his head in a vain attempt to keep awake. “Listen to me,” he continues, gathering up what seems to be the last vestiges of his consciousness in an effort to make sure she understands what’s at stake. “I smell gas and there’s smoke coming out of the engine. Something’s eventually gonna catch fire, and I need you out of this car before that starts, you hear me?” 

Panic wells up as she fully understands the meaning of his words, catching in her throat and filling her with blood curdling dread. She barely manages to choke out a, “No!” before the car creaks and groans some more, the black plume thickening and what looks like sparks from god knows what part of the vehicle lightening before them in intermittent clicks. 

His hand comes off of the steering wheel, fingers curling warmly against her cold cheeks, and it’s almost second nature for her own to grasp his, pushing the cool digits against her face and willing to keep him up for as long as is earthly possible.

“Dad! Dad, no! Don’t…You gotta stay up!” 

“Love you, kid,” he says weakly, eyes tiring out and closing against his will. His brows notch in confusion, as if unable to solve a puzzle that’s laid out before him. “Can’t stay up. Not sure why…but I love you, Clarke. I always have and I always will, ‘kay?”

Clarke shakes her head, a surge of indescribable panic at hearing his words—his words that sound so much like a goodbye, taking over every synapse of her thought processes. It’s when she feels his hand go slack against her face that her mind collapses into itself, momentarily lost and confused as a panic so indescribable fills her—makes her want to scream. 

She doesn’t even notice that she barely makes a whimper in the too silent vehicle. 

Do something. 

It’s her own mind (that sounds a lot like her dad in serious mode) that takes her out of it. He’s not dead. Not yet…and she’ll find a way to get him out. She’ll get both of them out if it’s the last thing she does. 

She presses a small kiss in his open palm before letting go, sliding her body sideways so she faces the window on the passenger’s side. Gathering up all the strength she can muster into her thighs, she begins kicking the window until it starts to give, her knee length boots going out further and further, breaking one glass shard at a time until the entire thing finally collapses. Cold, unforgiving wind blows through the now open window, the frigid breeze a small respite from the clogged air and smoke permeating the inside of the vehicle.Turning again towards Jake, she unclips the seatbelt, and whimpers at how his body sags maybe an inch lower into the ground. She only notices now that his seat had also been pushed further forward, trapping his body and legs to the point where only hydraulic claws could extricate him from the snug space. 

Before the same nauseating helplessness can take over her mind again, she hears it: life. A set of feet walking towards the vehicle. She doesn’t think about how leisure the pace seems—how unhurried the other person is getting to them. There’s only relief that there’s help. Someone’s here and they can help. Clarke is almost positive that the two of them alone can get her dad out of the trap he’s stuck in. 

The words for greetings are barely out of her mouth when the entire windshield is ripped out and flung across the side of the highway by an invisible force—as easily as one would taking off a bandaid.

Then tentative hello turns into an easy, what the fuck…And even before the words are able to form from her mind and out of her mouth, a pair of well-worn boots and slim jeans comes into view. 

Her tongue feels caught in her throat, and it stays there, uselessly, as the person squats down and gives them a look. 

The first and only thing Clarke can think of as they stare at each other quietly is that she probably died. She’s died and gone to heaven. Because this woman before her with perfectly curled and braided chocolate hair, angular and sharp features, plump and rosy lips, and eyes as deep and green as the darkest forest, has to be an angel. Has to be some sort of corporeal and magical creature, because there is absolutely no way that anyone can look this beautiful—this perfect. 

Those same eyes Clarke’s suddenly lost herself in widens in surprise, her face cocking to the side minutely as confusion pulls the stranger an inch back. 

“What is she doing awake?” 

The question, definitely not towards Clarke, takes her out of her reverie, her subconsciousness sounding a lot like Octavia snickering, You are so gay…before taking her back to the problem at hand.

Before she can say anything, the woman continues speaking, seemingly at the air between them, each word coating with annoyance and exasperation. “No, Anya, she’s…no the father is unconscious, but his kid isn’t!…I don’t know! That’s why I’m asking you!” 

Their eyes meet again, forest greens narrowed, but sparkling and chestnut curls bouncing from side to side as she shakes her head in clear irritation. 

“Of course I used the incantation before I came over,” she seethes, the anger certainly not taking any of the beauty off of her striking features. “What do you take me for, a novice?” She pauses again, still looking at Clarke like she has no idea what to do with her. “I would, but I can’t guarantee she won’t say anything…Well, that would mean she’d owe something and…” She sighs loudly, fingers coming up and pinching the bridge of her cute nose (Stop it, Clarke). “Fine! I’ll take care of it…I said I’ll. Take. Care. Of. It.” Each word is enunciated with dagger like precision before she waves her hand in the air, the silence following her small tirade kind of deafening. 

“Hi…” Clarke croaks, just as fire begins erupting from the engine. 

Both of their eyes widen in panic, the small flame mere feet from the stranger and obviously growing steadier with each ticking second. 

“Please help,” Clarke begs, her eyes beginning to burn and not just from the smoke. The all encompassing panic is back and she’s well aware that she’s able to get out of the car relatively unscathed, but her dad… “I’m okay, but my dad’s stuck and…” 

She trails off as the stranger begins shaking her head, forest green eyes muted, sympathetic, and apologetic as she’s given the woman’s undivided attention. 

“I’m sorry. I can’t help him.” 

The words, combined and uttered in perfect English, still makes zero sense to the blonde. She’s trying to piece them together, unable to understand why they’re not even trying…

“What do you mean you can’t help him? I just—you don’t even have to do much. I just need—

“I’m not here for him. I can’t help him—

“You literally just ripped the windshield out of the car and I’m…seventy-five percent sure you weren’t even touching it! So, like hell you can’t!” Clarke’s not sure where the anger’s coming from. She suspects it’s everything coming together in a crazy boiling point: the accident, her dad, this stranger, the fire. But if she’s not here to help them…then what the hell is she here for?

As if reading her mind, the brunette says softly, “I’m here to help you…not your father.” 

“Are you fuckin’—

“Language, Clarke.” 

“You’re not helping me!” she yells, anger beginning to cloud and take over to the point that her mind completely bypasses the fact that this absolute stranger knows her name. “Look! I can crawl out of the window that I broke myself! How’s that helping me? You know what would help me? Getting my dad out of this fucking car because it is literally on fire and…and…he…can’t get free. I can’t…I can’t do it by myself…please…” Clarke is in near tears by this point, the anger leaving just as quickly as it came, and in its place, confusion. Confusion that this woman is more than willing to help her out of this burning wreckage, but not her father. Confusion that she absolutely refuses to do the right thing when Clarke knows (she’s not sure how), but she’s absolutely certain that the stranger is more than capable of helping them with a mere flick of her wrist, but she just won’t. “Why?” The query comes out as a barely noticeable whisper. 

Why won’t you help?

Green eyes just stare at her resolutely, a brief flicker of pain flashing through before stoic indifference builds the wall back up. “As long as you’re safe, my work here is done,” the brunette says simply, and merely looks at her expectantly as she stays squatted and in sight. 

As their stare off continues, Clarke begins to make some sense of the situation. Not entirely, but she’s definitely able to get the gist—connect the dots that the stranger only needs her to be safe. Just her.

Damn the rest. 

In a brief (and pretty stupid) flash of insight, the blonde understands what she must do and unconsciously squares her shoulders. Forest green eyes flicker in confusion as they regard her, but she keeps the nervousness (fiiiiire, her mind repeatedly screams in the back of her brain) tucked away and lifts her chin slightly, defiance and stubbornness layering her face. 

“I won’t leave the car,” she says simply, and makes a show of it, her arms snaking around her chest and her butt plonking on the ceiling of the upturned car. She’s the perfect picture of bratty petulance and is somewhat proud of herself as she notices a slight tick to the older woman’s perfectly sculpted jawline. 

The stranger’s perfect chin goes up as well, regarding her now with more challenge than wariness. She shrugs, then says with a straight face, “I’ll teleport you out.” 

Clarke has no doubt that she most definitely can. She only shrugs. “I’ll run back in.” 

“I’ll teleport you far enough that you wouldn’t be able to.” 

“Then I will put a bullet in my head within the hour I find my dad dead.” 

This elicits that jaw tick again, pillowy lips pursing into thin lines and frustration clearly shining through narrowed green eyes. They stare at each other for a good ten seconds, the fire beside the stranger beginning to rage before a strong hand waves through the air and…it stops, literally just stops, as if suspended in time. Clarke’s eyes widen, her jaw falling in tandem as a little ember licking away from the open flame and caught in midair steals her attention. 

The word impossible rings in her ears, yet…

A heavy sigh pulls her attention from the phenomenon back to the achingly beautiful stranger that can apparently play (easily) with people’s lives. Her strong jaw clicks right and left simultaneously, eyes clearly conflicted before she sighs again and constructs a rolled parchment seemingly out of thin air. 

“This is a binding contract,” she says mechanically, unrolling the parchment out and showing barely decipherable words written in too small front across its yellowed surface.”In order for me to be able to do this, I need a few guarantees.” 

Clarke nods swiftly, but it’s all for naught. The woman just continues on, undeterred. 

“You will live.” She says this like a grave matter, clear and concise. “You will make an effort to make sure nothing dangerous ever happens to you. This means there will be no form of self-harm, suicide attempts, or anything of the sort. Your life will be linked with Jake’s.” Both of their gazes fall on the still unconscious man, Clarke’s lips pursing as she notices how pale his face has become since the start of this craziness. “If something were to happen to your lifeline,” the stranger continues, “the end result will affect him too. Remember this and do not play with it. Am I understood?” 

“Yes,” Clarke answers in near whisper, goosebumps erupting through the surface of her skin from the utter seriousness of the other girl’s expression. 

The brunette dispels a small sigh before continuing, “This also requires a pact. A…life for a life, one would say.” 

“I’m more than willing to sacrifice my life for his—

“What part of staying alive affecting your father’s isn't understood?” A perfectly manicured brow goes up along with the query, leaving Clarke feeling a bit chastised. 

Before she can ask what the girl means though, she comes closer and closer, until their faces are almost touching. If the entire situation wasn’t already making Clarke’s mind full to the point of overflowing she’d maybe tilt her head and lean forward too—meet the wonderfully beautiful stranger in what appears to be a kiss out of nowhere.

It would be the polite thing to do…her stupid mind sighs a little breathlessly. 

The one track thing short circuits in the middle of a happy hum as a warm palm cups Clarke’s cool cheek, long fingers flitting through the strands of her hair. Reflex turns her face to meet the stranger’s and she’s only vaguely aware of how disappointed she is when foreheads touch instead of lips. Her peripheral catches the brunette holding her father’s slumped shoulder before sharp green eyes (like sunlight breaking through a forest clearing after a deluge, or the deepest part of the ocean roiling amidst a perfect storm, or best yet, the sparkle of northern lights along a darkened night sky like a beacon of hope) open and locks with hers.

“Holy shit, your eyes just made my mind talk in a poem,” Clarke croaks amidst the sudden lump in her throat. 

Those soft lips curl into a soft, exasperated smile, and oh god, Clarke’s staring (she can’t help it), and of course she wets her own lips while staring unabashedly at the curved, plump—

“Focus, Clarke.” 

Her eyes flit back up to sparkling greens, amusement painting the sparkling irises.

“Hold your father’s hand so we may begin. And clear your mind of lewd thoughts.” 

“Excuse you, they weren’t lewd.” Clarke has half the mind to be offended. “I said poem…not smut…” 

Those greens lock with hers again, clearly repeating what the stranger just said wordlessly. 

“Focus. Right.” 

It’s a bit hard when the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen is literally a hair’s breadth away, but she gathers what’s left of her still one-track mind, and feels for Jake’s hand, holding the unresponsive, but warm weight steadily in her own. 

Those green eyes that she may be addicted to close, and Clarke thinks that, maybe, just maybe she can get back to the problem at hand, but then those cloud like lips begin to move in rushed whispers, and she can’t help it, she breathes in heavily, and the stranger smells intoxicating and heady, a strong mix of mint, green tea, incense, and how can it feel like…like home yet unfamiliar at the same time? 

The blonde closes her eyes—tries to think of other things while still breathing in as much as the other girl’s scent simultaneously. She hears the rapid rush of whispered words of another language, feels the soft breath fluttering against her face, breaks the yearning to capture it with her mouth. 

The feeling comes subtly, whisper quiet like the dawn of Christmas morning. And then, it erupts—same morning, but now the household is awake and with it, commotion and barely restrained excitement. 

Clarke feels her heart flutter, the breath in her lungs catching, and her heartbeat thrumming wildly against her eardrums. But more than anything, she feels it: her father’s limped hand curling against her own—strong and firm, and the smile that breaks through her face is free, the sigh escaping from her lips echoing in relief. She’s unaware of the stranger’s hand leaving her face until she feels the warm palm cupping her stomach, over and just below her belly button. The localized area feels hot, but not uncomfortable. Just enough that it forces her eyes to open. Those expressive, green eyes are on her again and she catches it, a small glimpse of a pure soul before the guard is back up, aloof, calculating. Before she knows it, the stranger is inching away until a foot separates them. She keeps contact though, just the tip of her fingers over the dip of Clarke’s stomach, and it’s weird how pronounced it feels—as if skin on skin instead of layers upon layers of winter clothes.

“Your firstborn.” 

It’s said so quietly, but Clarke doesn’t miss it. She means to ask what the stranger means, but feels the fingertips flex against her stomach, a strong palm cupping the flat area of her belly button. 

“A life for a life. Your father’s for your firstborn.” 

Her mind is baffled at the craziness of it all, but the last…how long has it been since the start of this? Ten minutes? An hour? Time seems…irrelevant somehow. As crazy as it is…this makes sense…somehow. 

“If I refuse?” she asks and only because she’s curious to know. 

What’s the worse than can ha—

Her trail of thought derails as her father’s grip weakens again, and behind the stranger the fire seems to begin flickering with life.

“Please understand that this isn’t a threat Clarke,” the brunette says, and Clarke hears it in her tone: dejection, sadness. As if both her hands are tied in this obligation and she has to see it through. 

Before she can talk anymore sense into the situation, Clarke nods, once—stiffly. She understands…kind of. Only, not really. But…if her dad being alive is the end, then the means are certainly justified. 

“I accept,” she says hoarsely, clearing her throat and reiterating, “I accept the conditions. Whatever they may be.” 

Relief becomes palpable in those bright green irises, and for a moment, Clarke wishes they were still forehead to forehead, wishes for the connection in that measly minute to return because outside from her family, it’s the most she’s felt tethered to this world. As if sensing her discomfort, her father’s grip returns a second time, and a brief flicker of her eyes notes that the fire is once again frozen in time.

“Firstborn. Second born.” She merely holds Jake’s hand tighter against her own. For some reason, this promise…this pact doesn’t scare her. “Whatever it is. I accept.” 

She feels a small caress at the bottom of her stomach, so subtle that she may have even imagined it. Begins craving it all the more as the stranger finally retracts her hand, and a good distance is between them. 

She smiles at Clarke and it’s so soft and almost…reverent. It completely catches the blonde unaware, but so do the next words. 

“That’s why it has to be you. You’re very special Clarke.” Then, as if sensing some shift in the balance, the stranger sits straightly again, and between them, the yellowed parchment from earlier appears once more. “Unfortunately we are pressed for time. The pact must be sealed in blood.” 

A dagger is procured from somewhere, probably the same dimension as the parchment. It’s pointed edge meets the brunette’s index finger and a slight push breaks the skin. Clarke winces almost reflexively, but what gathers her attention more is the color.

“It’s…black…” 

The stranger smiles, squeezing more of the blood out before smearing it all along the top of her thumb. It looks more like castor oil than anything, and the pre-med in Clarke wishes she can study it under a microscope and see how the cells look like. 

“I’m a Nightblood,” she says simply, as if this explains everything. “Hand please. And this may sting, but the ceremonial dagger is needed for exactly this purpose. I’ll puncture enough to at least get your thumb print and we’ll seal the pact by pressing our prints at the bottom of the parchment.”

Clarke merely nods dumbly, pushing her hand forward and into the alcove of a waiting, soft hand. Her skin feels alive at the mere touch, and she shakes her head to loosen the jumble currently riding all of her synapses. She blurts to stop herself from overthinking, “What’s a Nightblood?” 

She barely feels the pinprick of the dagger’s edge, astounded by the quiet concentration of the girl before her as she cradles her hand as if it’s something to be cherished. “A…different, more powerful set of witches or wizards with history predating to the original witch.” (She’s a witch, her mind uselessly supplies, but it’s not even in a distressed or accusing tone. Just…informative). “We hail from different stations, but the pillars remain the same: strength, compassion, wisdom. Witches and wizards with the nightblood are typically leaders of their own coven when apart from the main coalition, but the blood we share makes us…family, almost. Nightblood novitiates are found usually at birth and trained into leadership together. Each generation has its own Nightblood until the flame is passed down to a younger generation and the cycle begins anew. Before this though, the novitiates train together…forced together to share a burden they grow into. It makes us all quite familiar with one another—a burden and a curse simultaneously,” she adds almost deprecatingly. 

Clarke can only nod, the stranger’s words painting another world in her mind’s eye. It all sounds so fantastical, and if the last hour of her life just didn’t happen, she’d think it a wonderfully crafted story. It doesn’t even strike her to ask why the brunette is so forthcoming with all this information—it feels like something to be kept within an arm’s length and another blood pact to keep from leaking. 

The current one she’s in brings her back to their situation, and she stares in quiet, morbid fascination at the small amount of blood forming a dome on her index finger before she swipes it across the whole of her thumb print. The stranger gives a satisfied nod when she’s done and together they bring their thumbs down into the parchment, one side printed in red and the other, black. As if the entire thing isn’t crazy enough, the parchment warms underneath her thumb, sucking all the blood from her print into the yellowed surface and on top of her thumb mark, in elegant calligraphy is her name: Clarke Griffin. Her eyes dart curiously to the other side where the parchment has also drained the rest of the blood from her companion’s finger and she awaits eagerly at the flowing script that appears momentarily. 

Lexa of the Tree Coven. 

“Lexa…” The name comes out inadvertently reverent and husky, and when she looks up, it’s to a small blush and almost shy smile, green eyes staring at her behind long, fanned lashes.

“It’s nice to meet you, Clarke.” 

The parchment and dagger disappears almost soon after, and before Clarke is aware of what she’s doing, Lexa’s hand is curling against hers again, their knees knocking together at the sudden shift. She’d question what’s happening if not for the quick swipe of a finger over her cut and the blood stops, closes up right before her eyes, and in seconds becomes a week old scar that’s barely a divot on her skin. 

Her eyes widen, mouth opening in shocked tandem before a stuttered, but nonetheless genuine, “Thank you” expels from her. Lexa’s smile just widens, hooks her hand with Clarke’s forearm and gives a small tug and shake. Clarke follows her lead, grasps her forearm, and an indiscernible panic wells up, catches in her throat and she knows the other girl can read it, read her, but for some reason, this kind of feels like goodbye. The second one in the timespan of an hour, and she’s wanted neither of them.

And she’s quite aware of the situation they’re in, but still. It feels as if her eyes have just been opened and now that she’s wide awake, the world is expecting her to fall back to sleep. 

And that’s just impossible. She still has so many questions. So many things to say! She feels so pressed for time and all she kind of wants to do is just spend a day and get to know the beautiful stranger before her. Because she knows…regardless of who Lexa is—what she is, Clarke simply wants to know…everything about her. 

She’s resolute that it’s probably the best she can spend an entire day doing. 

“Lexa—

But she’s met with a firm smile, almost…professional. The warmed thicket in those forest green eyes have blocked the sunlight and they’re no longer shining, but guarded.

Lexa nods once, states softly, “May we meet again,” before letting go of her arm. 

Clarke blinks, and the world is upside down, the head rush bleating to her temples making her slightly nauseas. Glass shards litter every which way and she’s once again in the car’s passenger seat, suspended, and trapped by her seat belt, blonde hair fanning right underneath her. 

“You alright kiddo?” 

Her father’s strong voice takes her attention, swivels her head so that she can see him, her face stretching into a gloriously relieved grin. 

“Dad! You okay?” She’s staring at the blood dripping from his forehead, but it’s shallow, and upon closer inspection and a slight sniff into the air, she realizes that the breeze is cold and clean. It doesn’t smell of burning petrol or leaked gas, and holy shit…did she dream all of it?

“I’m fine, Clarke. Are you? You have a gash on your forehead. Are you dizzy? Faint? How many fingers am I holding up?” 

She can’t help the relieved laugh that bowls from her lungs, only realizing that she’s still holding her father’s hand and he’s holding up his other one, the hand against hers firm and reassuring. 

“I’m good dad,” she says softly, wanting more than anything to get out of this death trap and hug her father as tightly as she can. “Not dizzy, not faint, and three. What about you? Your head’s bleeding too. How many fingers?” 

He laughs jovially, his hand untangling from hers and coming up to her face, caressing her cheek gently and then removing bits and pieces of shards imbedded into her hair. “Just feeling a bit stuck, otherwise I’m good. And two.”

They’re halted by a sound of shoes hitting asphalt, and Clarke can literally hear her heartbeat thumping against her ear drums. Her head follows the noise as best as she can until a pair of khakis appear into view, but even before the person crouches down, she’s already filled with disappointment because she knows.

It’s not Lexa.

“You guys alright?!” a middle aged man, balding, bulbous, and breathless asks, fixes them both with a worried stare. “I’ve called 911. They’re on their way now. I don’t smell a gas leak, but it’s probably best to get you guys out of there as fast as possible.” 

“Thank you,” her father answers for the two of them. “I’m Jake and this is my daughter Clarke. We were gonna hit the slopes early this morning and this deer came out of nowhere. I…” He bites back his words, but Clarke can already hear the disappointment and anger in his voice. “I should’ve been more careful…Reflexes took over though and…I’m just glad this isn’t more worse than it could be.” 

The self-deprecation is clear from his tone and Clarke absolutely does not want him to go in that wretched place where self-blame runs rampant. 

She gathers his hand into hers again and grips it firmly until eyes, stormy blue and conflicted meet hers. “We’re both okay and that’s all that matters. Okay, dad?”

Her heart shatters when she sees the start of regretful tears pool at the base of his eyes before they fall and mingle with the streak of blood pooling into the vinyl. Wanting, more than anything, to comfort him she feels for the seat belt ejector confining her into her seat and pushes. This time around it doesn't budge an inch.

“I don’t know what I’d do if something were to happen to you Clarke,” hey says softly, pressing his fingers through his eyes and wiping the tears away before glancing, again, at her direction. “I can’t even imagine how I’d tell your mom—

“You don’t have to,” Clarke cuts him off, hoping with all her might that this doesn’t give him a single sleepless night. Similar blues sparkle back at her, laden with tears and hope and love. “You did good dad. Missed the dear by what? A good meter or two? No one died. Not even the stupid deer.” At this retort, he laughs a bellyful of mirth and holds her hands even tighter…as if letting go again could spell a different outcome. 

The sirens are faint, but in the dead silence of a nearly empty, snow laden road, it’s the loudest sound in the world. Her dad, getting his bearings again somewhat, speaks to the man who’s still crouching. It gives her time to think back to the almost dream. 

Or was it really? 

She’s read medical reports of hallucinations—people getting hit in the head and living a whole lifetime in their heads only to wake up after an hour and find out that none of it was real. 

As surreal as the entire thing was though, Clarke’s 99.9% sure that it happened. It was too real, her memory too fresh. She can still hear the softness laced within a smooth voice, smell that unusual combination of mint and tea and incense clinging in the air like ghost perfume, feel the steady and firm hold against her stomach, warm, safe, and comforting. 

And those eyes. 

She doesn’t know it yet, but she’ll spend years replicating the color, the hue, the shape, the sparkle. 

And she’ll always feel as if there’s something wrong—a minor imperfection that forces her to shove the drawing/painting/sketch away (never to throw) and start anew only to fail. Every time. 

But the shred of doubt lingers in the corner of her mind, because it was as if the stranger—Lexa was never there. She doubts forming a blood pact with someone can still constitute them as strangers. At the very least…acquaintances?

But the windshield, broken in spiderweb cracks remains intact, never flung off by an unseen force. Even the passenger window that Clarke had kicked open remains a steady see-through wall beside her. And for some reason, it elicits panic to well inside of her because it’s important somehow that she’s assured it wasn’t a figment of her imagination. That her stupid one-track mind did not create the most beautiful human being, turn her into a witch, give her stupendously magical abilities to help a person in need (albeit hesitantly), fix up a story line about blood pacts, only for Clarke to wake up and question the entire thing right down to the last glass shard that remains in its same perfect spot if the perfect stranger hadn’t come in the first place. 

Activity flurries in front of her, the edge of a bright red firetruck screeching to a halt on the road and rushing, hurried footsteps and yells following. She nods in all the right places, answers shortly when she needs to, and prompts them to take care of her father first—he’s stuck after all. They haul out the hydraulic claws just as she’s cut out of her seatbelt, the head rush from falling and her body righting itself causing some unease, but the familiarity of the fall takes her right back to thinking about Lexa. She’s just barely able to put herself together and into pre-med mode as the paramedics begin looking her over, answering any questions in medical jargon she knows they’ll appreciate if not understand better. 

Nothing feels broken. Nothing even really hurts. As if her entire body’s gone through local anesthesia. They put her in a stretcher anyway, just in case. And a quick look over her father’s way expels a sigh of relief as she sees him being wheeled into another waiting ambulance. 

“You’ll both be taken to Harbor Point Medical. Is there anyone you’d like us to contact?” 

“My mom,” she answers hurriedly, cranes her neck to keep an eye on her dad and smiles as she notices that he’s doing the same. He gives her a brief thumbs up and a grin before he’s completely inside the ambulance, and that’s when it kind of hits her. Her right hand is inches from her face in seconds, her index finger jutting out like she’s pointing at herself. It’s barely noticeable, but it’s certainly there: a divot. A week old, pinkish-white scar from a small incision. 

It makes her body obviously deflate from sheer relief. Makes a broken laugh escape from her once tight lungs, and it’s amazing how better she can breathe. How such a small thing can assure her that she isn’t quite as crazy as she’s led herself to believe. 

It probably doesn’t convince the paramedics though, because they’re both looking at her like she may suddenly spontaneously combust. 

“I’m going to do mild concussion protocol on the way to the hospital,” one of them tells the other. “Radio them to make sure they do a complete test, okay?” And then looks at her and smiles. “We’ll try to get you there as quickly as we can. Do you want to give us your mom’s number so we can call her? If you don’t know it, that’s okay.”

Yep, he’s definitely convinced she has a concussion. 

“She’s a neurosurgeon at Polis University Medical,” Clarke answers, but continues to observe the scar, rubbing her thumb over it, and smiling kind of foolishly. “Abigail Griffin.” 

“Alright. Yup, let’s go.” 

She doesn't really hear sirens or feel the tumble of the ambulance as it goes down the snowy road. She’s not even paying attention to the paramedic whose questions she should seriously be answering. The whole ride is spent looking at the scar, feeling it, wondering when she’ll see Lexa again. 

Because she has to. There’s a blood pact to uphold, right?

**Author's Note:**

> So this thing has been stuck in my mind to write for months and it's finally coming into fruition. I'll write when I can so updates are going to be super sporadic, but real life dictates all. I guess I should add that this isn't to be taken seriously. I know crap about wiccan stuff so all of the things I'll add will most likely be made up or something I scrounged and copied from various media regarding witches and wizards. Hope it was at least enjoyable!


End file.
